


Torchwood Ship One-Shots

by a_cat_and_a_dog



Category: Torchwood
Genre: A lot of these are random parts of longer stories I'll never write, Basically my Owento garbage, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, My trash pile, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Owento - Freeform, Random - Freeform, Rating varies, Smut, janto, otp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:04:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_cat_and_a_dog/pseuds/a_cat_and_a_dog
Summary: A bunch of Torchwood one shots, fragments, and parts of longer stories I'll never write. A lot of Owen/Ianto because it's my crack ship turned OTP. Most chapters will be E or M but I'll put it in the notes. If there's ones that you would like to see more of, don't' hesitate to comment and let me know!





	Torchwood Ship One-Shots

**Author's Note:**

> This one was part of a longer story I'm never going to write. It's a slight AU where Owen and Ianto had a one night stand after Diane that evolved into more when Jack left but Owen broke it off before Jack's return because he couldn't commit. And now Jack's back and Owen has no right to be jealous but he is. 
> 
> Also, I tried a style of writing I'm not used to so I'm sorry if it reads weird. The present tense also really threw me off.
> 
> Rating: Mature bordering on Explicit. 
> 
> Ship: Owen/Ianto

He hesitates outside the all-too-familiar door, not quite willing to knock on its chipped beige frame but not quite sober enough to bear leaving. The stark grey numbers painted on the frame taunts him and he reaches for his lanyard before remembering that the key he wants is gone, has been gone for a while. The dead quiet of the surrounding flats also reminds him that night has fallen hours ago and that everyone with any sense is already asleep and god he doesn’t like being woken up-

The tequila bottle he’d bought at new years and finally found last night in a far kitchen cabinet trembles in his unsteady hands, the acrid alcohol inside swishing slightly against the glass sides with every tremor that rackes through him. He doesn’t know exactly when he’s started shaking so bad, maybe it was just nerves or maybe the alcohol was finally starting to affect him.

_ Long Term Effects of Alcohol: _

  * __Cardiovascular diseases__


  * _Liver disease_


  * _Respiratory infections_


  * _Cancer_


  * _Nerve Damage_


  * _Ulcers_



 

Too many court ordered AA meetings he’s sat in the back of hoping his mother would actually take to heart, too many alcohol poisonings in his residency days, too many lists of medical effects that can’t help him but hey, maybe when the next person is dying in his arms he can stop it. And that train of thought isn’t helping his current situation so he stuffs it down  _ like everything else  _ and takes another sip, letting the burn in his throat draw him to the present. And the door.

“Stupid.” He mumbles under his breath and raps twice on the frame. Not too loud, though, because if no one answers then maybe he can just tell himself he tried and leave.

But then no one answers and for some reason it just makes him feel worse. “ _ Why won’t you look at me?” “There’s nothing I want to see.”  _ And now the tequila is hitting him full force or maybe he’s just gone a little crazy so he bangs on it hard enough to hurt his hand three more times and begins shouting random shit. Because at least he’s good at that, shouting random shit he doesn’t meant just to  _ hurt  _ someone.  _ “You really are pathetic, you know.” _

And of course now the door swings open but he’s not expecting the hand that drags him in and slams him up against the wall. (Not in  _ that  _ way. Not in the way his wants with too much hot skin and everything so  _ close _ .) His vision’s a little blurry, but he can make out blue eyes that look tired of everything. Another tremor hits and the tequila falls from his loose grip, shattering against the ground in a  _ really cliche metaphor for his life _ .

“Shit! What the fuck, Owen?”

The hand lets go of its death grip on his neck and he can breath again. It’s dark in the flat until a few mumbled curses lead to the light flooding on and Owen can see the shards of glass scattered around his feet. 

“Well there goes dinner.” He tries to joke, but it falls gratingly flat against Ianto’s burning stare.

“What are you doing here?”

He shifts, the stare following him and cutting through all the bullshit excuses he knows he could recite. Ianto always had this infuriating way of removing his barriers and pulling that deep dark  _ raw _ part of him out just by existing in the same room. The hand that had previously held the bottle of tequila clenches and something twists inside of him ( _ too much, too much _ ) Something wet runs down his angled cheek  _ “You’re not eating enough.” “Fuck you, we can’t all have slow metabolisms.”   _ and he realizes that he must be crying. With a quick swipe of his shirtsleeve it’s gone and hopefully Ianto, who’s staring at the floor with an unreadable expression, didn’t notice.

“It’s two A.M.” Ianto says, finally, after a silence thick enough to cloud Owen’s judgement. The longer he stands there, the less he knows what exactly he’s doing. And now Ianto’s looking at him and there’s nothing in his eyes.

Owen’s always envied the younger man’s ability to convey indifference through a single glance, but he never thought he’d be on the receiving end of it. Maybe anger, or sadness or even repressed lust, but indifference cuts harder than anything.

_ The opposite of love is indifference. _

“... you’re drunk.” the Welshman states, and he sounds almost disappointed.

“The fuck does that matter?” Owen spits back, and he’s angry again. Hot and agonizing, because who the fuck does Ianto think he is to be  _ disappointed  _ in him.  _ “I didn’t raise you to be a failure, Owen.” _

Ianto’s expression shifts from indifference to an entirely new animal. He’s angry ( _ has every right to be _ ) and Owen wonders if he’ll be able to explain himself before his body winds up in ditch. “I’m not in the mood to sit here and listen to you be a twat, Owen.”

It feels like he’s being pulling in every direction at once. One millisecond angry, the next choked with jealousy, the next filled with impossible sadness, and he tries to gather it all. Tries to stuff it down and just  _ leave  _ but he  _ has to ask.  _ “Have you shagged him yet?”

It seems to take Ianto back, and for a moment he regrets it, but then the fire behind the other man’s eyes goes out.

“Owen… _ You  _ ended us, remember? I didn’t do this.”

_ He’s right. He’s right. You ruined it, like Katie and Gwen and Diane. Like EVERYTHING. _

“So you did fuck him?” He can’t breath right, every word falling from behind clenched teeth. He knows he has absolutely no right to be jealous but it burns through him anyway, ignorant of all logic. Seeing their absent Captain return in a whirlwind of charisma and too much bravado to be real had already made his blood boil, but the thought of Ianto  _ going back  _ and ignoring everything that had happened started a ringing in his ears that drowned out his own self doubt.

He expects Ianto to be angry again. To tell him to leave in a biting tone or maybe even hit him ( _ is that what he came here for? _ ) but can see the defeat in the younger man’s eyes. He’s worn out, like the rest of them, from long hours and low staff but Owen knows he’s made it that much worse.

_ Never should have done this. Never should have leaned across and kissed him in the SUV after Diane was gone and nothing seemed to matter. Never should have opened the damn rift. Never should have tried to step in for Jack because god knows he can never fill that role for any of them. _

He can see Ianto trying to formulate a sentence, trying to put this madness into words, and he doesn't ( _ shouldn’t _ ) care. It’s not even about Ianto, he’s not even sure he really loved him.  _ “We would never make it anyway.”  _ It’s about everything in this shitty, goddamn tragic  _ life  _ of his.

The glass crunches beneath his torn up sneakers as he crosses the space between them.  _ If he’s going to cut down my barriers, I’ll cut down his.  _ Ianto smells of 51st century pheromones and bitter coffee and Owen can’t resist practically shoving himself against the other man. Daring action, any action, because he  _ doesn’t want to talk anymore. _

“You going to do anything or just stand there?” He taunts, pushing as far as he can and for some reason it comes out far too sensual for his liking. Of course Ianto notices, drawing a quick breath in and looking away.

“What do you want?”

It’s soft and almost pitiful. Owen hates it.

“Don’t know. What do you wan-”

Ianto’s mouth is warm, unsure against his own but still enough to silence any remaining words. He pushes back, taking all the soft and returning it with teeth and bitterness as Ianto leans against the nearest wall. His thigh slots between the younger man’s almost on instinct, giving just enough friction to draw out a choked moan that he can’t help but grin into. It’s sloppy, but familiar and  _ good.  _ His tongue presses against pliant teeth to delve further, exploring like this was the last kiss they would ever have ( _ probably is _ ).

Ianto’s hand snakes around his back, rucking up his shirt and finding a resting spot at the nape of his neck. They break apart, Owen settling for mouthing at the other man’s jawline while Ianto unzips his jeans with precise hands. He’s already half hard, they both are, and the drag of Ianto’s knuckles against the front of his boxers is enough to pull a grunt from him.

“‘s bed…” He manages to get out, gesturing vaguely at the direction of Ianto’s room as he began pulling the Welshman’s plain black shirt over his head. Ianto seems to hesitate but lets the shirt fall to the ground in an uncharacteristic heap.

“This isn’t a good idea…”  

“Then stop.” It’s an invitation and a challenge sealed with another searing kiss.

Ianto shakes his head and tugs Owen towards the bedroom, both shedding clothes along the way. By the time Owen’s leg hits the bed frame they’re completely naked, neither one pausing before collapsing onto the creaky mattress.  _ “The paycheck we’ve got and you’re sleeping on this shit?” _

Ianto’s hand is on his chest and for a brief moment all Owen can think of is how much they’re both going to regret this. The thought of tomorrow morning, of awkward glances at work, of anything beyond this moment felt too much ( _ overwhelming) _ and he arches up into the warm press of skin against skin.  _ Just forget it all. _

He’s usually on the opposite side of the equation, but tonight is different. ( _ Is this goodbye? _ ) Ianto knows his weak spots. Every sensitive patch of skin that curls his toes, every place that sends a groan through his clenched teeth, and of course he’s taking advantage. A solid hand gripping his bony hips, the rough scrape of teeth against his collarbone, fingers circling his thighs in a tantalizing dance. It doesn’t take long to strip him down to nothing but pleasure and need.

“Owen…”

Ianto’s paused, his hand reaching for the side cabinet drawer. It’s not hesitation, not anymore, but he looks wistful and a little heartbroken. ( _ “All they do is pity you.” _ )

“I know, I know.” He grits out, shifting for a more comfortable angle. “Just get a bloody move on, alright?”

It’s all Ianto needs.  
  



End file.
